


Steal All My Reason

by wendigosmile



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Hair-pulling, Jealousy, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Rimming, Scenting, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, as is required by this fandom, biting kink, theres a little plot but its basically irrelevant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:15:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23479087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendigosmile/pseuds/wendigosmile
Summary: Jaskier promises to get the information they need for a hunt, without resorting to threats.Geralt finds he does not approve of his methods.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 73
Kudos: 907





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've always been skulking on the edge of every fandom I've ever joined, but this pairing is too much man.

As usual, there is something about the monster Geralt is hunting that he hasn’t been told. He should know better than to take jobs for the nobility - they’re always more trouble than they’re worth. And yes, maybe, as Jaskier constantly points out, the coin is far better than the meager scrapings the peasantry can offer, but at least when they tell him where and what the monster is, they mean what they say.

The baron of this small hamlet had met them in the village proper three days prior, flanked on either side by his men, nodded his head at both Geralt and Jaskier alike, and smiled a kind smile that didn’t touch his eyes.

“I was beyond glad to hear that a Witcher was in town,” He had cast his eyes over them again appreciatively. “And, why, the famous White Wolf and his wondrous bard no less.”

Geralt had sensed Jaskier preening over his shoulder without having to look.

“Well you’re in luck, my lord.” Jaskier had hollered. “We’re in need of work. What terrible beast would you have my dear friend slay?”

The baron, who, like everyone else eventually did, clearly got the message that Geralt was not the one worth talking to, turned his attentions to Jaskier. “Why, I believe it to be some subspecies of vampire that terrorises my people.”

Jaskier had lit up, turning a large grin on Geralt. “A vampire! We haven’t had one of those yet, Geralt.”

“What kind?” Geralt asked.

“Hmmm?” The baron raised a brow.

“You said a subspecies.” Geralt narrowed his eyes. “What kind?”

“My archivist tells me it is a katakan. A rather fearsome foe.”

“Lots of things rhyme with katakan.” Jaskier had said consideringly.

“There’s good coin in it, of course. Say, three hundred crowns?” The baron had gestured to the purse on his belt without making moves to open it, content that his wealth spoke for itself. “I know Witcher’s will do nothing without a reward.”

Geralt had looked at Jaskier. Considered the frozen ground of the woods they had been attempting to camp on for the past few weeks, coin scarce, too far from villages or towns for Jaskier to even sing for their supper.

“And assuredly, you and your…” He had been talking to Geralt but looking at Jaskier “...charming companion shall have rooms at my home whilst you undertake this little job for me.”

“He’ll take it.” Jaskier declared. “It’s only one little katakan, no bother at all for the White Wolf!”

“Hm.” Geralt had said.

Which brought them to now, freezing and irritated and stood in broad daylight, staring at a ravaged corpse just on the edge of the village.

“Well this was no katakan.”

Jaskier, who is standing as far away from the pile of guts as possible whilst still being in hearing range, perks up in delighted interest. “Then what the devil was it?”

Geralt grunts.

The corpse is drained of blood, sure, but it’s also torn apart, disfigured beyond the point of recognition. The fang marks are minuscule in comparison to the grotesque claw marks that spill its guts. To look at this corpse one wouldn’t think of a vampire.

Especially as, fucking hell, the creature had attacked when the sun was high in the sky.

Which means that the baron knows something more than they do. Of course.

“We’ll need to talk to the baron.” He says, very unhappy with this prospect. “There’s something he’s not telling us.”

And without preamble he begins to stride towards the manor.

“Wha- Geralt, wait!” Jaskier stumbles after him, then jogs in front, jogging backwards so that he can attempt to catch Geralt’s eye. “What do you mean?”

Geralt huffs, reaching out to steady Jaskier as he stumbles over an unseen obstacle, still jogging backwards like the idiot he is. “The baron has more information that he has decided we don’t need. I intend to get it out of him.”

“What, by punching him very hard in the face until he relents?” Jaskier demands. “You can’t threaten a baron man, he’ll have us both killed!”

“I won’t hurt him.” Maybe.

“That’s not the point, Geralt! Stop, stop-” He slides fully into Geralt’s path and extends his arms. Geralt could probably plough straight through him if he chose to. He stops, anyway. “You have to accept that your usual block headed approach is not going to work here.”

“Then what do you suggest.”

Jaskier shook his head wonderingly. “Perhaps a little persuasion, some subtle questions asked at the right time?”

“You think I should use axii on him?”

“Gods, Geralt, you’re really useless at this. No.” Jaskier takes a step back, content that Geralt isn’t going to storm off again, and flourishes. “This is why you have me, a man of the people.”

Geralt gives him a look.

Jaskier gives him one right back.

“Look, the baron has invited us to dine with him and his people tonight. Give me some time to pry a little.” He holds up a finger before Geralt can cut him off. “And, if by tomorrow morn we are still no closer to the answers you want, you may cast whatever little spells on his mind you like.”

“Jaskier, this isn’t one of your blushing noblewomen whose skirt you can charm your way under.”

Jaskier throws his head back and laughs, a strange glint in his eye. “You really do underestimate me.”

Geralt is really starting to like Jaskier’s laugh. He wonders how he fared without it for so long.

Folding his arms across his chest, Geralt relents. “Fine. One night. Find out just what the fuck the baron is keeping from us. If it’s another striga we are leaving this village and not coming back.”

And with that he begins his stride towards the manor again, shouldering Jaskier out of the way.

“A striga? You never told me anything about a _striga_!” Jaskier wails indignantly behind him. “Geralt, what is a striga?”

\---

They dine late that night: the baron, a few guests from the neighbouring township, eager to see a real Witcher with their own two eyes, Jaskier, and he. The food is rich and the wine and ale flow freely, even more so when the meal is done, people leaving the table to mill about and gossip.

A few brave souls have attempted conversation with Geralt, approaching him where he has tucked himself into the corner of the room, shoulder to the wall and stein in his hand, but are quelled with only a look.

He was left alone to keep an eye on Jaskier.

Jaskier who, true to his word, is working on the baron. He’s leaning close, head angled as he listens to the words muttered lowly only for him, hands playing with the rim of his wine glass but not drinking from it, making a fine show of being utterly enraptured in whatever he hears.

In a sense, he looks rather like his barmaids and ladies do whenever he talks to them, and it’s making Geralt uncomfortable.

The baron is a handsome man, he supposes. Though he’s older he has not succumbed to a life of drink and luxury, still toned, with dark hair shot through with grey, and a sharp jaw. He’s tall, not as tall as Geralt, but still taller than Jaskier, and much broader too.

And as Geralt watches he places a proprietary hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, making a show of pulling him in closer, as though he couldn’t already hear whatever he was saying. Jaskier responds not by leaning away, like Geralt half expected him too, but by placing a hand on the man’s thigh.

Something white hot shoots through him, and his knuckles clench on the stein in his grip.

He has never considered Jaskier with other men before. Never seen him so comfortable in the company of one aside from - well, aside from Geralt.

Jaskier’s saying something now, lips to the man’s ear, and the baron’s hand slips from his shoulder, down, to his lower back. The baron’s men seem unconcerned with this, and the other guests, well, if they notice anything amiss they do not react.

Jaskier clearly has no idea what he’s gotten himself into, where the man’s tastes obviously seem to lie.

As if he has heard this thought the baron looks at Geralt suddenly, over Jaskier’s shoulder, the corner of his mouth turned up and eyebrows raised as though in challenge. It takes everything in Geralt not to bare his teeth and growl like a dog.

Their eye-contact lasts only a few more seconds before Jaskier has reclaimed the baron’s attention, hands waving about as they do whenever he is telling a ridiculously embellished story. The baron is making a show of listening, but his eyes are on Jaskier’s lips.

And then the baron is standing, guiding Jaskier up with him, muttering something to one of his men. And he’s leaving the room. And Jaskier is following, but Geralt can’t see his face. He’s going to need saving again then, christ. So Geralt pushes off the wall and silently follows, slipping a few beats behind them.

He can only hope that Jaskier has gotten the information they need from the man before Geralt has to kill him.

Except...Well, except, when he rounds the corner, reaching the stairwell, he does not find Jaskier in peril. He’s boxed against the wall, yes, the baron’s arms on either side of his body, caging in him in, but he’s not struggling. His head is thrown back, eyes closed, as the man sucks at his throat. And Geralt freezes in place when he moans, too loud, alcohol ridding him of his shame, giggling as the baron shushes him, playfully nipping at his throat.

“Take me to your room then darling, if you don’t want me to alert your whole household.”

The baron reaches between them and Jaskier keens. “Oh I’m planning to.”

Geralt leaves.

Jaskier does not return to him that night.

\--

He doesn’t see him again until the late hours of the next morning, in fact, slipping into Geralt’s chambers with the air of a naughty schoolboy fleeing his lessons. He doesn’t knock, but Geralt hears him coming anyway - doesn’t bother turning around.

He’d had a maid prepare him a tub, make the fire up to roaring, but he hasn’t gotten further than kicking his boots off before Jaskier is making a dramatically appreciative noise from behind him.

“Oh wonderful, a bath.”

Geralt spins on his heel, ready to shoot Jaskier down, but his words die in his throat when he claps eyes on him really, truly, for the first time.

There are dark circles under his eyes, indicating a lack of sleep, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. His lips are swollen, fuck, pulled back into a pleased smile, and there, creeping out the top of his red doublet, one purple bruise, no, two.

He’s seen Jaskier after many a conquest. Seen him hair tousled with a swagger in his step and a glint in his eye, but never has he seen him so…

Well, so wrecked, before. So obviously, physically, _claimed_.

He finds that he very much does not fucking like it.

“Come now, Geralt, don’t look at me like that. It’s only a bath!” Jaskier laughs, gently elbowing him aside so he can disappear behind the screen. “I’m sure the lovely maids will make you up another one if you’re so averse to sharing your water with me!”

Jaskier’s voice is slightly hoarse, rough around the edges, like he’s caught a chill or - well, shit, Geralt doesn’t want to think on it. Won’t think on it.

“What’s wrong with your own damn bath?”

“It’s too far away, and I don’t want to have to wait on it.” Jaskier explains, slowly, as if Geralt is in imbecile. “Why would I, when you’ve got a lovely one right here?”

Geralt just grunts, knowing a lost cause when he sees one, in spite of what others might say.

There’s silence for a moment, just the rustle of Jaskier removing his clothes out of Geralt’s sight, while Geralt desperately tries to get a grip on how pathetic he’s being.

“Well?” He grumbles.

“Hmm? Well what?”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Well what was the fucking information that the baron wasn’t telling us?”

“Oh!” Jaskier sounds surprised for a second, as though he’d forgotten about that whole fucking point. If he didn’t get the information after that, Geralt will, well.... Have an excellent excuse to threaten the baron, he supposes.

But Jaskier seems to have pulled himself together. “You’re right, it’s not a katakan. It’s, uh, a bucksa?”

Well, shit.

“A fucking bruxa?”

“Yes! A bruxa, maybe even a pack of them.” Jaskier’s head pokes out from behind the screen. “Is that bad?”

“That’s worth so much more than three hundred crowns, the cheap bastard.” Geralt grunts. “A hell of a lot more dangerous, especially if you don’t know what you’re up against.”

“Good job I found it out then, isn’t it.” He sounds much too pleased with himself.

“And he just told you that did he?”

“Well no, but he said some things that sort of implied it.”

“What?” He frowns. "What is that supposed to mean?"

“Well...they’re supposed to be rather seductive aren’t they? They prey on men. He said something about how he hoped I wasn’t a buckso.”

“Bruxa.” Geralt was seething. What a cheap line. “They only take the forms of young women.”

Jaskier just hums in response, and Geralt hears the slosh of the water behind his back as he gets into the tub.

He hesitates before turning around.

It’s not as though they are usually shy around each other when bathing - even if it was possible on the road Geralt isn’t body shy enough to hide away, and Jaskier is always too invested in his inane prattle to break off speaking for something so trivial as stripping naked.

It’s just. It feels changed now.

Charged.

Now that he knows that Jaskier, well…

Get a grip, Geralt. He turns.

The bath is probably too hot for a human. Steam curls from Jaskier’s skin where it hits the cold air of the room, and he’s flushed, a pink tinge to his chest and his cheeks. And there, exposed where before they had only been a suggestion - the ring of purple bruises across his throat, his collar bones, one as high as his jaw and lower, lower...

Geralt chokes back a growl, jaw locking into place. “Did he attempt to _eat_ you?”

Jaskier opens one eye and grins, slow, like the cat that got the cream and then some. “Oh he did more than attempt I assure you.”

It’s only a joke, but that unnamed feeling is back, twisting Geralt’s gut.

If Jaskier could purr Geralt imagines he would be; lazy and looselimbed, fingers absentmindedly dancing across the purple marks as though remembering the moment behind each one. It’s unusual for him to ever be quiet for this long. Geralt, against all odds, finds he can’t stand it.

He can’t hold back the noise he makes this time, a sharp huff of air from his nose.

Jaskier laughs at him. “I’m sorry, I’ll spare you the details of my misadventures with the unfairer sex.” Then, he lifts an eyebrow. “Now are you going to stand there menacingly the whole time I’m in the tub, or are you going to make yourself useful and pass me the soap so I can wash my hair?”

“Hm.” He pushes off from the wall, rifling through Jaskier’s pack for the ridiculously perfumed soap he prefers to use on his hair (“The same soap for hair _and_ body Geralt? The audacity.”).

“Gods am I stiff.” Jaskier mutters quietly behind him, but he doesn’t sound displeased, and he beams when Geralt approaches. “Thank you, I feel _filthy_.”

And he looks it. The heat from the fire and the water has quickened his breath, and sweat is sticking his fringe to his brow. The bruises are even darker up close, some showing the clear marks of teeth. Geralt can’t see properly under the water, in the dark, but images dance in his head, of matching bruises on Jaskier’s hips, his thighs.

And then Geralt smells it. Smells him. The baron. His rosemary perfume, the wine he was drinking, his sweat, and above that, sex. It sticks to Jaskier’s skin, cloying. On his throat, in his hair.

And that feeling in his gut is back, and something clicks into place. Oh. He’s angry.

Instead of placing the soap in Jaskier’s outstretched hand, he lathers it in his own hands instead and kneels by the tub, ignoring the perplexed look Jaskier is shooting him. Jaskier’s washed Geralt’s hair before, this isn’t that unusual - he claims he keeps it like a rats nest, and attacks it with fervor whenever an excuse provides itself. Geralt’s never returned the favour before. But now he needs to.

The minute he has his hands in his hair Jaskier relaxes into them, humming happily. “Not that I’m complaining, but what’s brought this darling display of affection on?”

“You reek.” Geralt grunts.

Jaskier tsks. “Charming. I can assure you the baron had no complaints about my-”

Geralt tugs on his hair, hard. “I don’t want to hear about the fucking baron.”

He regrets it almost as soon as he says it, but it’s too late. Jaskier stiffens.

“I never thought you of all people would be intolerant about this sort of thing.” He’s trying to keep his voice light, but there’s a note of hurt to it that he can’t disguise. He attempts to move forward, away from Geralt’s hands tangled in his hair, but Geralt won’t let him go. He places his hands on his shoulders instead, soap slippery.

His fingers press into the bruises. Jaskier gasps, softly, under his breath, but Geralt hears. He doesn’t move them.

“I’m not. I’m. I’m sorry.” He clears his throat. “Let me finish?”

Jaskier tips his head back so that he’s looking at Geralt upside down, eyes searching. His hair is making Geralt’s shirt wet and soapy, but he doesn’t shift. He must decide he believes him, because he smiles again, quicksilver. “Who am I to deny a man so obviously intent on pampering me.”

Geralt snorts, the closest to a laugh Jaskier usually ever gets, and moves his hands back to the task, fingers digging firmly into his scalp. Already the man’s scent is beginning to lift under his ministrations, replaced by chamomile and lavender, but it’s not enough. Still it lingers on Jaskier, on his skin. Jaskier, oblivious to his motives, is sighing contentedly, eyes fluttering closed again, lips parting slightly.

“For someone who perpetually looks as though he was dragged by a drowner backwards through a swamp,” Jaskier quips, sounding ever so slightly breathless. “You’re actually rather good at this.”

But Geralt isn’t really paying attention. Without much thought his hands have traveled down Jaskier’s neck around to his throat, and he can’t help it, he leans in and sniffs, snuffling at the crook of his neck.

Jaskier jolts. “U-uh, Geralt.”

“You stink of him. He’s all over you.” He doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t move his hands, even though they’re no longer scrubbing, just hanging, gently, around Jaskier’s throat.

“That-uh- that tends to happen when one sleeps with - Geralt are you okay?”

“I can smell his hands in your hair.” He moves one hand back up, clenching, loosely, a handful of it, his mouth to Jaskier’s ear. He’s lost his wits. He can’t control himself. “Did he pull it? Pull your head back so he could get at your throat?”

Jaskier is making a very uncertain sound, hands flapping pointlessly in the water. “Geralt, _smell_ him? Have you been at the bottle? I don’t-”

“Answer me.”

Jaskier, exhales, shuddering. “Yes, christ yes, he did.”

Geralt growls, yanking Jaskier’s head back, exposing the long line of his neck, marred by that man’s fucking marks. “Did you enjoy it? Being bitten?”

“Oh fuck. Geralt shit-” His hands shoot up, finding Geralt’s hand that still sits at the base of his throat, clasping around his wrist. He takes a deep breath. “Yes.”

Geralt’s mouth is at Jaskier’s throat before he makes a conscious decision to move it, lips ghosting at the bath-hot skin. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Jaskier tells him to stop. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Jaskier doesn’t.

“Don’t.” Geralt is so close he can feel Jaskier’s throat work as he swallows. “I don’t know what’s happening but please don’t stop.”

Geralt bites down, hard. Jaskier whines as he works at the already abused skin, legs jerking, water sloshing over the sides of the tub, and the sound makes Geralt’s stomach tighten. “F-fuck, Geralt, what-”

“I can smell him here too.” He licks over the fresh bruise, over the old ones, until the only scent that remains is his scent. “He was all over you. Where else did he touch you?”

“Shit. Fuck. Am I dreaming?” When Geralt pulls back to look Jaskier’s eyes are hazy, heavy-lidded where they stare at the ceiling, and he’s breathing heavy.

“Jaskier.” His voice is rough. “Don’t make me ask again.”

Jaskier shudders. “My chest.”

The angle isn’t ideal but Geralt manages, pushing up on his knees until he can reach around, rough palms sliding across collar bones, hovering just shy of his goal. He can feel Jaskier’s laboured breathing under his fingertips and it is gratifying.

“Here?” His fingers ghost a nipple and Jaskier keens, hypersensitive. From this angle Geralt can see into the tub, see that Jaskier is half hard, and the sight sends blood rushing to his own dick.

“Ye-e-es.”

Geralt rolls one between his fingers, gently, before pinching, hard. More water sloshes out of the tub as Jaskier’s hips jerk, and Geralt rewards him with his lips at the back of his neck, on his shoulders, pressing open-mouthed kisses as he goes.

“This is the best day of my life.” Jaskier sounds a little shell- shocked but more in control of himself now, and Geralt sees his hands moving, going to slip under the water.

“No.” Geralt grabs at his wrists, yanking them back, pinning them to the sides of the tub. “You do not touch yourself.” _Not while you still stink of him_.

“Fuck.” Jaskier squirms in the water, tugging ineffectually at Geralt’s grip. “Fuck, you cruel bastard.”

Geralt has never heard Jaskier cuss so much as he is now and it thrills something in him. The articulate wordsmith who barely shuts up long enough to draw breath reduced to one syllable curses.

“Hm.” Geralt releases his wrists, hesitating a moment until he’s sure Jaskier won’t attempt to move them again. Then he moves his hands back to Jaskier’s chest, rolling his nipples slowly, lazily, teeth bared contentedly at the soft noises the man is making. “Where did he go from here, Jaskier?”

But Jaskier doesn’t say anything, eyes shut tight, head on Geralt’s shoulder, mouth slightly open.

“Your ribs?”

He traces one hand down, fingers under the water now, stopping only when it reaches his hip, fingers curling possessively around the bone. “Your hips?”

“G-Geralt.”

“Did he hold you here like I am?” He grips, harder. “Did he?”

“Yes, shit, yeah- fuck, Geralt-” Jaskier is blinking up at him, one shaky hand lifting off the rim of the tub to touch gently at his cheek. His voice is very quiet, slightly awed.

“Your eyes are black.”

And suddenly the tub is very much in the way. So Geralt picks Jaskier up, out of the water, flailing and squawking, and sets him on the furs by the fire. His eyes are wide and shocked but he’s still hard - harder than before - naked and soaking under Geralt’s fully clothed body.

And Geralt can see all of them now. The bruises, the marks where his hands had pressed, the teeth marks on his thighs, stark in contrast to pale skin that flickers soft gold in the firelight. He wonders what he would see if he rolled Jaskier over, on his rump.

His teeth are back on Jaskier’s body before the man can fully get his bearings, working at the thin skin in the hollow of his throat.

And Jaskier, the devil, rolls his hips up, pressing his groin against Geralt’s trousers, desperately seeking friction, bringing their hips together clumsily. The contact is fucking glorious. For one moment Geralt presses back, rolling his hips forward and baring his teeth at the low, desperate moan Jaskier makes, hips jerking, thinking he’s finally gotten what he wants. And then Geralt’s pulling back, sitting up.

“Fuuuck, Geralt- what-?” Jaskier follows him, sitting up. His chest’s heaving, his mouth is red where he’s been chewing at his own lip, his dick is straining.

“You don’t smell like him anymore.” One corner of his mouth turns up.

Jaskier gapes at him. “You- You bastard!”

And then he’s crawling towards him, crawling into his lap, naked thighs either side of his hips, hands at the collar of his shirt. “The baron didn’t leave me wanting like this. He was a very generous lover, in fact. Fucked me absolutely sensele-”

Geralt growls. And then they’re kissing. He tastes blood, realises Jaskier’s bitten him, and the thought shouldn’t drive him as wild as it does. His hands grab onto Jaskier’s arse and drag him forward, bodies flush together, Jaskier’s damp skin sliding on the leather of his trousers. They both cry out.

“So you are jealous.” Jaskier hums into his mouth, hands busy untucking Geralt’s shirt from his waistband, deft and experienced at undressing others, clearly desperate to get his hands on bare skin. He’s clearly going for smug superiority in his tone, but the breathlessness slightly ruins it.

“I’m not fucking jealous.” Which is such a lie even Geralt knows he’s being ridiculous.

Jaskier laughs, even as he succeeds in his goal, too impatient to remove Geralt’s shirt completely, running his hands over his stomach, through the hair on his chest. “Shall I tell you what else he did to me?”

He punctuates his question by pressing down, pressing into Geralt’s aching dick still trapped in his trousers, and Geralt tips his head back, breathing slightly unsteadily for the first time, even his Witcher’s control slipping.

He doesn’t say anything, but his brow furrows and his jaw tightens, as Jaskier goes on. “After he went to town on my throat, on my chest,” Jaskier presses his lips to his ear, “He pushed me to my knees and fucked my mouth.”

Geralt pushes him onto his back so quickly that his head cracks against the floor, protected only by the pelt they lay on. Jaskier looks up at him, smiles coyly. “Don’t you want me to suck your dick, Geralt? I’m very good.” His hands find the button of Geralt’s trousers, cup his dick through the material. He hesitates. Licks his lips. “But then again, you’re very big.”

Geralt slaps the hands away. “Did he return the favour?”

Jaskier looks very confused, brow furrowed. “What?”

“Did he,” Geralt leans down, mouth against Jaskier’s thigh, breathing in deeply through his nose, chasing any scent that might still linger. “Did he return the favour?”

Jaskier exhales, long and shaky. “No.”

That’s all Geralt needs. He licks a stripe along the underside of Jaskier’s dick to the tip, before swallowing him down, hands pressing his hips down as he automatically bucks up into the heat of Geralt’s mouth. “Fuck!”

Geralt hums around his length, unable to grin with the smug satisfaction that he wants to. He has minimal experience at this, but he knows what he likes, and, judging by the soft little noises Jaskier’s making as he fights against Geralt’s unrelenting grip, Jaskier likes it too.

“Shit, Geralt.” Jaskier’s hands find his hair, and he seems to have recovered his voice, and his confidence, at last. “God, your mouth is so good. I’ll - I’ll compose a ballad to your fucking mouth Geralt, shit, yeah, like that-”

Geralt pulls off and glares. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Jaskier groans keenly at the loss. “I won’t sing it in polite company of course, please, just don’t stop-”

But Geralt does stop. Jaskier’s close, he can smell it, taste the salt of precome on his tongue.

“Oh my god, it’s true what they say, Witchers _are_ heartless.”

Geralt hauls him up, fist in his hair, voice rougher than ever. “I am going to fuck you, Jaskier.” The man honest to goodness whines, and Geralt is aching for him, straining painfully against leather. His other hand runs over Jaskier’s skin, nails dragging, from hip to jaw. “I am going to fuck you until you forget his hands on you. Until you forget your own name. Forget everything aside from the fact that you are mine.”

Jaskier’s eyes are glazed over, and he’s trembling slightly, overstimulated and desperate. “Oh gods.”

“Where’s the oil, Jaskier?”

Jaskier doesn’t respond, mouthing as he is at Geralt’s shoulder, hips rutting.

“Jaskier. Oil.”

“M-my pack.”

Geralt lowers Jaskier to the floor again before standing, striding across the room and upending Jaskier’s belongings across the floor. There, rolling away, he spots it.

This part Geralt is even less familiar with, but he has an idea, and so he douses his hands liberally with the oil before kneeling down again, hiking Jaskier’s legs up to rest on his hips. He shoves one finger in without preamble and it goes easy. He must still be slightly loose from earlier and fuck does that rile Geralt up. Jaskier makes an impatient noise, pushing back against his hand. “More, Geralt.”

So Geralt gives more, two fingers, three, and he kisses him again, unable to help himself, biting and possessive, Jaskier’s mouth almost slack against his as he gasps. He’s practically bent in two, but he doesn’t seem to care. After a minute or so he demands, “Fuck me now.”

Geralt growls and sits up, freeing himself, finally, shoving his trousers down just far enough to free his straining dick. Jaskier eyes it, half with trepidation and half with delight, and crawls into Geralt’s lap once again. “The baron never had a cock like that.”

That’s all the encouragement Geralt needs to lift Jaskier and slip into him, slamming his hips down and pressing into the tight heat of him. Jaskier cries out, loud, nails cutting into Geralt’s back, sharp and relentless. Geralt groans into his ear. Hopes someone heard that. Hopes someone tells the baron.

“Mine.” He says, again, because he means it. Jaskier needs to understand that. “You’re mine, Jaskier.”

“Yours.” Jaskier echoes, as Geralt helps lift him again, slams him down. “Fuck, fuck, _yes,_ Geralt.”

“You’re gorgeous.” Geralt hisses into his ear. “You’re perfect.”

“Faster, Geralt, please-” Jaskier’s words end almost on a sob, thighs shaking, tight around Geralt’s waist.

Geralt pushes him down into the floor, fucking into him, deep, making him groan. “Ye-e-s.”

“Tell me who you belong to.” Geralt growls, and his hand is at Jaskier’s perfect throat again - not pressing down, just sitting there, lightly. Jaskier’s pulse is jumping, under the skin, and he can feel it. His hips still. “Tell me, Jaskier.”

“You, gods, you, Geralt, always you.”

Geralt hums, pleased, and rewards him with one, slow, thrust. “Always?”

Jaskier cusses. “Yes, yes, you smug piece of shit, you glorious bastard. F-from the minute I saw you sitting in that tavern, saw your - fuuuck,” Geralt thrusts into him again.

“Don’t stop.”

“Saw your gorgeous eyes, I knew. I knew I’d follow you anywhere.”

Geralt bares his teeth, feels his chest clench. “Good boy.”

And then he’s fucking him, really fucking him, fast and deep and Jaskier is crying out so loudly it’s a wonder no one has come to see if they’re okay.

“I’m going to -” Is all the warning Geralt gets before Jaskier spills, clenching so tightly around him he sees stars. Geralt growls, grabbing Jaskier’s thighs and pushing them up, back, knees to Jaskier’s ears, practically bent in half, hips snapping. Jaskier has tears in his eyes, spent and shaking and oversensitive almost to the point of pain.

“I’m yours, Geralt.” He says, voice broken and wrecked, and that’s all it takes for Geralt to finish too.

He has the presence of mind enough not to collapse on top of Jaskier, and rolls aside, flat on his back. Jaskier, breathing heavily, manages to lie beside him silently for only a few seconds.

“Well that was deliciously unexpected.” His voice is hoarse, and a little hesitant.

Geralt is hit with the enormity of what he has done - the bridges he has not only crossed but burnt down. He knows, somehow, that if he were to get up and leave now, there is no guarantee that Jaskier would follow.

Jaskier sits upright, shivering slightly in spite of the heat of the fire. His eyes are red-rimmed, his skin more bruised than not, and he stinks of Geralt. Of them, together. He looks at the door.

This was all Geralt wanted, but truly, was it what Jaskier did?

Geralt needs to find his words, and find them quickly.

“Did I hurt you?”

Jaskier hums, fingers to his throat. “Yes.” Geralt winces, but Jaskier only smiles, a little uncertain. “But I have no complaints.”

“Hm.”

“Though I feel I need another bath. You didn’t even wash the soap out of my hair!”

And then Jaskier moves to get up, to walk away. To wash himself clean and go god knows where, for months on end, like always, but Geralt can’t have that.

He acts before he thinks, bundling him between his legs, wrapping a fur around them both until Jaskier is tucked flush against Geralt.

It’s easier to say when Jaskier’s facing away from him.

“Don’t go.”

“Geralt..” Jaskier’s fingers find his, intertwining them, sighing sweetly. “I’m still not entirely sure what’s happening, but I’m far too exhausted to move anywhere tonight. Or for the next few days in fact.” He tsked. “But I really would like to clean all this cum off my body.”

It’s vulgar, and the thought of it, of Jaskier removing all his hard work, removing Geralt’s scent he worked so hard to put there in the first place - Geralt growls, tightening his arms. Then he sticks his head into the crook of Jaskier’s neck and shoulder and inhales, deeply, snuffling contentedly.

Jaskier makes an exaggeratedly affronted sound.

“God, there you go again with the sniffing. Is that a Witcher thing? Can you really smell who’s touched me?”

Geralt hums, still snuffling, arms still tight around Jaskier’s waist even as the other man relaxes into his hold. “I can.”

“Then what do I smell like now?”

“Like me,” Geralt says, simply. “Like us.”

Jaskier is quiet for a long moment and Geralt thinks he may not say anything else. What can he say to that? To Geralt’s awkward admission, to his barbaric and pathetic claims of ownership, fine in the moment but now uncomfortable and stifling?

Then Jaskier spins in his hold, jaw set in a way Geralt has not seen before, eyes narrowed. He’s up on his knees, looking down on Geralt in a way he can’t when they’re standing, and he tilts Geralt’s chin up with a firm hand.

“I am going to fuck you, Geralt of Rivera. And show you who you really belong to.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a little longer than I wanted, but I hope you enjoy. Thank you for the lovely response to the first chapter!

The world, for one beat, stops spinning, suspended on its axis as Geralt blinks stupidly up at Jaskier. His smile is wicked, lips replacing his hand as he leans down, mouthing along Geralt’s jaw. Soft, open mouthed kisses, with just the barest hint of teeth. 

“Jaskier…” 

Jaskier hums, hands toying with the edge of Geralt’s shirt, coaxing it up. “I thought I saw you watching, you know?” 

Geralt grunts, more focused on the feel of the fleeting butterfly kisses than what Jaskier is saying.

“I told myself...” Jaskier leans back and away, coaxing Geralt’s arms up so that he can get his shirt over his head. It’s sodden, and sticks to his skin, and it takes far too long to get _off_. But Jaskier manages, eventually, and his eyes go half-lidded at the sight of Geralt’s chest. “Fuck.”

Geralt can’t help the small smirk. Nor can he help chasing Jaskier’s mouth, kiss bitten lips slightly parted as he stares at Geralt - at his scars, or his muscle, or both, who cares - swallowing down the sound of surprised indignation. 

“No-” Jaskier, pulls away, only for Geralt to kiss him again, lips slotting together, tongue probing. He pulls him flush against his chest, bare skin finally touching bare skin, and Jaskier groans deep. For a moment he kisses back, hands winding in Geralt’s hair, and Geralt grins viciously against his mouth. But as he lets his hands trail down Jaskier’s sides, the man pulls back. “Geralt - ah, no.” 

“No what, bard?” 

Jaskier huffs in frustration, back to gripping Geralt’s jaw, commanding, forcing his head back. “You will listen to me, or you will not touch me, understand Geralt?”

Something hot coils deep in Geralt’s stomach. He nods once, tightly. 

“I told myself,” Jaskier says, obviously contented that Geralt will not disobey for now, “that you didn’t really care, that you were just doing your job, making sure I didn’t fuck things up too badly with the baron.” 

His hands are on Geralt’s chest. Smaller than Geralt’s, and softer, calloused in a different way - from plucking strings, not gripping swords - but still broad and strong and _intoxicating,_ damn it. 

“But the thought of your eyes on me as he touched me-” 

Geralt growls, deep in his throat, unbidden. Jaskier laughs, delightedly. “Yes, _god_ , yes I wanted this to be how you felt.” 

“I imagined you following us.” Jaskier’s mouth is on his neck, his hair under Geralt’s nose, and all at once, all over again, he is overwhelmed by the scent of him. Of fresh sweat, of lavander, of sex. He doesn’t bite at Geralt’s skin but he licks, kitten soft, and his hand’s don’t stop tracing his scars. “Following us and, and fucking ripping him off of me-”

It’s too much for Geralt. He wants him again. Wants him _now_. He ruts up, hips snapping, and Jaskier cries out, head swinging back so quickly he almost cracks it on Geralt’s chin. 

Quickly his hand slides down between them, across the thick hatch of hair at Geralt’s groin, further...And he lets out a breathy, incredulous, laugh. 

“Gods, you really are hard already.” He licks his lips, eyes fever bright, and curls his fingers around Geralt’s cock. 

“Your fault,” Geralt grunts, fucking up into his fist. “You don’t know what you fucking _do_ to me, Jaskier.”

“Gods.” Jaskier hisses. Then he jerks as Geralt’s hands find his own cock, oversensitive. 

“Darling, not all of us are blessed with a Witcher’s stamina.” Jaskier curls his fingers tighter, just this side of painful, just how Geralt likes, distracting. “I’m not as young as I once was, give a man a fighting chance.”

“Then let-” Jaskier twists his hand, makes Geralt groan, almost distracts him but - “ _Fuck_. Let me help with that.” 

He wants to get his mouth back on Jaskier. On his throat, _shit_ , on his dick. Swallow him down until he’s hard and straining and begging for Geralt to fill him again - 

“No, no, Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice sounds strained, like he’s fighting with himself. But in the end he stays firm, doesn’t go easy when Geralt tries to nudge him backwards, lay him out. 

“I told you I was going to fuck you and I meant it, Geralt.” He grits out, grabbing Geralt’s hair with one hand and _wrenching_ him back. “Now be a good boy and wait _patiently_.”

Geralt doesn’t expect the rush of blood to his dick at the words, at the _pain_ ; almost flushes with shame at the way Jaskier notices, teeth flashing in a very interested smile. 

“Do you like it when I pull your hair, darling?” 

He yanks it again, hard, and when Geralt gasps he moans too. “Or do you like it when I praise you?”

“Jaskier-” Geralt grits out a warning, feeling very suddenly out of his depth. 

But then Jaskier’s fist is moving again, the hand in his hair loose but still _there,_ like a threat (like a promise), and the doubt is clouded over again by pleasure. 

“I’m sorry to tease, but you don’t realise how fucking perfect you are, Geralt.” 

Jaskier doesn’t sound sorry, he sounds beyond pleased, voice deep and honey rich, and it makes Geralt’s toes curl. 

Geralt wonders how many people Jaskier has charmed with his words, how many women and men he has talked into his bed, won over with poetry and praise.

“Gods I can’t wait to get inside you.” Jaskier’s hand is moving faster now, and Geralt grips his hips, _hard_ , bruising. “Have you been fucked before, darling?”

The truth is…”No.” He’s fucked men - very infrequently, when he’s visited a brothel and needed something _rougher, harder, filthier_ than soft curves and long hair - but never the other way around. No man has even thought to try, too intimidated by his height, his bulk, his _eyes_.

He’s never minded before. 

Jaskier shudders in his hold, and Geralt can _smell_ it. The edge of lust. Jaskier’s not hard yet, but he’s _wanting,_ breathing heavy and skin sweat slick. 

“Oh, you’re going to be so good for me, aren’t you?” Jaskier’s lips are back at his throat, murmuring words into his fire hot skin. “So _tight_ , just for me, only me.”

Geralt huffs, embarrassed, and, fuck, still so hard. 

“Let’s get these trousers off, hm?” Jaskier shuffles backwards, releasing Geralt’s dick (licking his lips at the low groan Geralt chokes out at the loss), tugging the leather down. Geralt kicks them off impatiently, and he’s finally, finally naked, same as Jaskier. Completely exposed and, for the first time he can truly remember, feeling ever so slightly vulnerable. 

Jaskier hums at the sight, and he crawls back into his lap like he can’t help himself, mouth chasing Geralt’s. He tongues at the spot he’d bitten earlier, worrying it until it starts to bleed again, laughing at Geralt’s disgruntled _brr._

Laughing until Geralt fucks up, cock nudging at Jaskier’s arse, trailing off into a shocked keen. 

“I _told you_ to behave.” And before Geralt can even retort, smug reply ready on his tongue, Jaskier wrenches back his hair and _bites,_ teeth cruel and sharp on Geralt’s throat. Geralt shouts out. “Do you want to disappoint me, darling?”

“Jaskier-”

“ _Do you?_ ” 

Geralt clenches his jaw, pissed off and smarting and so fucking aroused. Jaskier kneels before him, bruised and wild-eyed. He looks fucking beautiful. 

“No, Jaskier.” 

“Perfect. Now roll onto your stomach, sweet thing.” 

Geralt bares his teeth, tightens his grip on Jaskier, reluctant to let go. But Jaskier gently removes his hands, pressing one last, lingering kiss to his mouth as he guides him down. 

Part of Geralt is bristling, the part that wants to put Jaskier in his place, fuck him into the ground until he _respects_ Geralt, but another part, a smaller part - 

“Yes, darling, that’s it. You can be so good for me when you want to be.” 

Doesn’t want Jaskier to stop praising him. 

So he goes, elbows braced on the furs. He can’t see Jaskier now, but he can hear him, knees shuffling against fur, and the lack of his touch is making Geralt more unsure each passing moment. 

“Jask-”

And then he feels it. A soft, probing heat, buried in the mound of his arse, and it’s - 

“Fuck!” 

He can’t help it, he jumps, lurching away from the foreign sensation. “Jaskier, what the fuck are you doing?” 

“Just trust me, hm?” 

His tongue - his fucking _tongue_ \- is back, teasing, softly, and Geralt’s stomach is _tight_. This is, this is fucking-

“Sh, darling, relax.” Jaskier’s hand strokes gently down his ribs, fingers curling around Geralt’s dick, coaxing it back to full interest. “Don’t think, just feel.” 

When his tongue returns this time, it’s not hesitant, and it’s joined by a finger, rubbing gentle, wet circles. “Relax, shh.” His breath is hot on Geralt’s skin, and Geralt feels his muscles start to uncoil, his body loosening even as his breath quickens. Jaskier keeps making pleased little murmurs, like he’s _proud_ of Geralt or something. 

And yeah, shit, it feels fucking -

When Jaskier’s tongue darts inside he can’t help the cant of his hips, pushing back against Jaskier, or the shout-groan. “Fu-u-uck!”

Jaskier moans, both hands clutching at Geralt’s hips as his tongue fucks into him, again, and again, like this is good for him. Like just getting Geralt off is enough. It’s insane. It’s _intoxicating_. 

And then he’s pulling away. Someone makes a high-pitched keen and Geralt doesn’t realise it’s him until he hears Jaskier chuckle, slightly breathless, voice slightly disbelieving. “Geralt, you’re gorgeous.” 

“Shut the fuck up, Jaskier.”

“But, sweet thing,” A kiss to his inner thigh, slow and lingering. “Now we know just how much you _adore_ my mouth.”

Geralt grits his teeth. “I will _kill_ you.” 

“Yes, yes, you’re a big scary Witcher. But right now -” Jaskier has pulled away from him briefly, but he keeps a hand on the small of Geralt’s back. It’s not really holding him - Geralt could throw him off in a second - but the weight of it is commanding. Geralt doesn’t move. 

And then Jaskier is back, but his mouth is replaced by a finger, oil slick, tracing circles. 

“But, right now, you’ll do what I say won’t you?” 

Geralt tenses again, briefly, at the feeling, unable to stop his muscles bunching at the foreign feeling. “Shit. Jaskier-”

Jaskier hums, but doesn’t press in. “You’ll have to relax, my darling. Or this will hurt.” 

Geralt knows, he _knows,_ but he’s vulnerable, naked, both literally and fucking metaphorically, and this is a lot (too much) and - 

“Sweet thing, I promise I can make this good for you, but you have to trust me okay?” Jaskier’s voice is so soft, gentle, and coaxing. Then, he hesitates. “But if you don’t want to - if you’d rather have me again, then, _fuck,_ I would have no complaints-” 

“Jaskier.” 

He stops, at once, at the sound of Gerat’s voice. Ready to stop, ready to back off, even if this is what he really wants, all so that Geralt is comfortable. 

“I want you to fuck me.” 

Jaskier groans. “ _Good boy_.” 

And then his finger is back, pressing in, pushing past the tight ring of muscle and Geralt grits his teeth. But Jaskier is making soft, comforting little sounds, like Geralt is a wild animal that needs soothing, praising him quietly, and Geralt - Geralt forces himself to relax. 

And he does, slowly, in tiny increments. And Jaskier’s finger presses deeper, searching, curling, until - 

“ _There_ we go.” Jaskier murmurs behind him, but Geralt is too busy seeing fucking _stars_ because, fuck, he knew this spot existed, had watched men come apart when he found it, but he hadn’t imagined - 

“ _Jaskier.”_

“I know, sweet thing, I know.” A second finger joins the first, fucking into him, hitting that spot over and over, stretching him out until he’s slack-jawed, pressing back against Jaskier, desperately, chasing the sensation that’s all together too much and _not enough_. 

“Fuck, Jaskier. Fuck me _now.”_

Jaskier _groans_ , deep and melodic, and Geralt hears the slide of skin against skin - realises Jaskier is touching himself, coaxing himself back to stiffness, even as his other hand works Geralt over. 

“This is your first time, darling, you’re going to need more.” 

And Geralt could fucking _throttle_ him, because he keeps going, teasing with his fingers, adding a third, then a fourth. They stretch out and Geralt grits his teeth at the unfamiliar burn, at how it hurts _so fucking good_. 

Geralt’s never been a man of many words, but -

“I need you, Jaskier. Shit.” He twists his head back, wanting to see him, cursing the awkward angle. He’s _so hard_ , dick straining, and needs something, anything. “You’re mine. No one else can have me this way, only you. Now hurry up and _fuck me.”_

Jaskier curses. 

Then suddenly he’s empty, gods, missing Jaskier’s fingers already, and there’s a hand in his hair, gripping tight, Jaskier’s body looming over him. His voice is hoarse. “You are going to be the death of me, darling.” 

And then he’s gone, hand gone from his hair, warmth gone from his back, and Geralt almost makes another fucking embarassing sound at the loss, but he chokes it back, jaw locked tight. The absence of sensation is almost enough to make him tense again, but then he feels Jaskier - not his fingers this time - nudging gently at his entrance, lining up, and _shit -_

“Up on your knees sweet thing, that’s it.” 

They moan in tandem as Jaskier presses in, slowly, so fucking slowly. 

Jaskier’s smaller than Geralt - in girth and length - but when he’s inside, even just the tip, he feels _huge._

“Fuck, Jaskier-” He cuts off, elbows braced on the ground as he breathes in deeply.

Jaskier’s hands are running up and down his sides, soothing, even as they tremble slightly. “I know darling, you’re so good. You feel so good.”

“More -” 

“Geralt -”

He growls in frustration. “I’m a Witcher, Jaskier, you can’t hurt me, so _fuck me already._ ” 

And then Jaskier is sliding in, fully, thick and hot and everything Geralt never knew he fucking wanted. “Shi-i-it, yes.”

“Gods, I was right, you’re so tight.” Jaskier sounds wrecked, like he’s sung for hours without pausing, and he’s shaking, Geralt can feel it. 

Of all the things Geralt’s ever been complimented on, he didn’t think ‘tight’ would be on the list, but when Jaskier says it, low and wondering and just this side of a moan, it makes his cheeks flush, his gut clench. 

He’s fucking him slowly, rolling his hips like they have all the time in the fucking world, lazy and languid and, _shit_ , pulling Geralt further and further apart with each thrust. 

“I wish you could see how good you look, you gorgeous thing. Like you were made for this, for, ah, fuck, for me.” 

Jaskier must know. Must know the effect his voice has, pitched low, and soft, like he’s fucking one of his noblewomen, whispering sweet nothings in her ear. Not a man like Geralt, all rough edges and broken pieces. 

And yet…

“Dear heart, if I could stay here like this, with you, forever....” 

He’s leaning over him, chest to spine, skin slick and warm. He’s not tall enough to cover all of Geralt, but he buries his face between his shoulder blades; lays open-mouthed kisses wherever he can reach, in between each word. “I would, fuck, I would.”

“Jas-kier.” His voice breaks in the middle and Jaskier groans, hips speeding up like he can’t help himself, nails digging rivets into his sides. 

Geralt reaches for his dick but Jaskier slaps his hands away, grasping it himself, timing his hand to the speed of his thrusts and it’s so fucking overwhelming and through it all he _doesn’t stop talking_.

“Darling, you’re gorgeous.” A kiss, more tongue and teeth than lips. And,

“Sweet thing, you’re perfect.” A thrust that hits that spot inside Geralt, has him groaning. And, 

“You’re so _good, good, good_.” 

It all blurs together as Geralt feels the pressure in his gut building, hips jerking, knows that he won’t last much longer and Jaskier must not be far behind. And so Geralt almost misses it when Jaskier’s voice drops, just above a whisper, breath hot across his back. 

“You make me weak, my love.”

Geralt finishes before he even realises he was going to, spilling across Jaskier’s hand with a silent cry, mouth parted around a sound that dies in his throat. And Jaskier follows not a second later, so close it’s almost in unison, cursing as Geralt must tighten impossibly around him. 

Unlike Geralt, he doesn’t have the good grace to roll away. Instead he collapses down onto him, face down, panting and boneless. 

It’s up to Geralt to maneuver them both, again, gritting his teeth as Jaskier’s dick slides free, ignoring Jaskier’s slurred protestations like he ignores the lewd slide of cum down his legs. 

(Thinks of how Jaskier must be faring the same way, of how he could bury his face between his cheeks, inhale the scent of himself, lick him clean, practise what Jaskier has just taught him is possible - )

But Jaskier is exhausted now, forget-me-not eyes half-lidded and glazed over, staring up Geralt blearily. He’s got a dopey smile on his face that Geralt wants to kiss away, unbearably, but doesn’t. 

He doesn’t know if he can. 

(“My love, my love, my love-”)

“I think you broke me, Geralt.” Jaskier slurs. 

Geralt chuckles, fond. “What happened to Jaskier, the unparalleled paramour?”

“I think he finally met his match.” Jaskier is on the tail-end of sleep, Geralt can see it. He wonders if he should rouse him. Make him wash, dress...leave? But then Jaskier is tugging him down, rolling into him - throwing a leg over his hip and nuzzling his cheek into his shoulder. 

“Did it work?” Jaskier asks, softly, after a few moments. Geralt’s running a hand up and down Jaskier’s thigh, listening to his breathing even out and heart rate slow as unconsciousness creeps up. 

“Hm?”

“Do you..” Jaskier chokes around a yawn. “...know who you belong to now?”

Geralt huffs. Feels his chest go tight. 

“You, Jaskier.”

But he’s already fallen asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier can't shut up, not even during sex (especially not during sex). 
> 
> Geralt fucking Jaskier into oblivion is wonderful, but let's never forget Jaskier is canonically a sex-god. Amen. 
> 
> Thank you for coming on this journey with me!

**Author's Note:**

> Next up...Well, I think Jaskier set it up pretty nicely. 
> 
> In the meantime come talk to me about the witcher on my new tumblr please, @dandelionpoet.


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